


Communication.

by SepiaWhiskey



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff without Plot, Negan (Walking Dead) Swears, Nice Negan (Walking Dead), Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Requested, Romantic Fluff, Sexy Negan (Walking Dead), Voice Kink, sleepy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 10:25:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10683387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SepiaWhiskey/pseuds/SepiaWhiskey
Summary: REQUEST.Tumblr Prompt: “I can only fall asleep when I'm listening to your voice, but I haven't been willing to admit it, so I'll call you late at night with ridiculous excuses, and I'm pretty sure you're onto me.”[ Negan / Reader -  Fluff. ]





	Communication.

**Author's Note:**

> If you've read my stuff, you'll know I don't usually take to fluff. But let's see what I can cook up.
> 
> So, I had to tweak it a bit. Apocalypse and all that mess.

Like he didn't see through your crap -  because he  _ did  _ see through it, but it was the kind of crap he had no problem indulging in.

 

To his life, that had certainly sustained longer than yours in the matter of age, he had never known a woman to find an actual interest in hearing the contents of cookbooks over the line of a radio within the final hours of a day. 

 

_ Shockingly enough,  _ he just hadn't crossed many women with that sort of kink. 

 

The first two times, he took to assumption that perhaps you were quite literally cooking amidst his speech and even questioned your motive to hear him read down what you could easily do yourself. Liars shouldn’t come as unconvincing as you the way you tried to insist a million fibs. You were just interested was the one you tried to push the most. A side from your lies, he honestly took to the assumption that you were actually cooking and just too embarrassed to confess. Intent on truth, he had gone striding to the kitchen to catch you on the act only to find the empty space of the kitchen, rightfully, at ten. Alternately, he visited your quarters and found you curled to the bed with the radio in hand, sleeping with your blanket close to body, radio not so far from your ear. He'd be lying if he hadn't admitted, then and there that you looked damned adorable. 

 

Of course, it eventually occurred to him that perhaps you just liked his voice. Wasn’t a lack  of modest to acknowledge that his came a bit more graveled than most - shit, his mom had told him most days that he could imitate his father and pass. From there, a separate channel was used to speak to you on a personal level. A line that would come as an understatement if he simply rated your use of it as moderate. It came to the point where he now needed to keep a second one on hand for your bouts of calls that came timely enough, and not so much around the men, that he felt it his obligation to chastise you in any manner. You served as one of the scavengers for the surrounding, wooded area of the Sanctuary and with a such a menial job, there was no reason to assume why you’d gotten your own room beyond the obvious fact that he simply found you worth keeping close by for personal reasons of preference that  _ did not  _ extend to sharing the same bed in any form or another.

 

For this day in particular, he had found your voice humming for him around ten, glass of whiskey in hand. To say he wasn’t [ recklessly, in hindsight ] a bit tipsy was a damned lie. Despite himself and the opportunity to feign slumber, he finds your personal radio at his feet as he lazily brought his head up from his desk, drawling with his lips brushing against the speaker, “Need something, doll?”

 

Through no knowledge of his own did you pause before speaking, “Are you too tired?”

 

He snorts, hand running over hair, “Cooking, late?”

 

“Hm? Mm - yeah. But you can pick.”

 

Such a piss poor liar.

 

“You got it... “ he snorts a final time, standing and walking to the small bookcase by his bed, prying loose the cookbook he had taken out many times. He sees the varying books of stories and realizes that if you were to ask for those, your intentions would be revealed. Still, there had to be better things to hear him say than the ingredients to - 

 

“7-Up cake?” He fingers the page from the moment he sees it and shakes his head, bringing himself down into his seat where he checks in, “You still there?”

 

“Uh huh?” He can actually hear you moving, the bed softly creaking to the change of position.

 

“Good, good. You got some stuff to make 7-Up cake? I don’t think we’ve found any soda out there - “

 

“I can make do. Go ahead.”

 

He shakes his head.  _ Damned  _ bad liar. 

 

He runs down the lists of ingredients before getting to the instructional part, moving at a painfully slow manner the way he would if you’d been  _ actually  _ cooking, checking every so often to see how things were going with the ingredients, chuckling to himself when you call with a yawn, nodding and urging him forth, asking for what was to come next.

 

“You’re gonna add the eggs and then the flour into the mix. Add the soda and the mix together in with this for one minute, just mix it.” 

 

“M...hm.” 

 

He shakes his head and continues forth before pausing and looking down, “Doll?”

 

Silence.

  
"Doll?"

 

Nothing.

 

He manages himself up and carries himself to your quarters, smirking when he sees your figure nestled again, hair a sprawling mess in the reckless way you had lain yourself down. Shit, it was still cute. You shifted a bit for a moment and he sees your unaware gaze look down at the radio before clearing your throat, "Mm, keep going. I'm listening."

 

He smirks at your threshold and makes you jump, "Doll, you are the worst fucking liar..."

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies to she who requested for the lateness! I lost the password to my request account and couldn't get in.


End file.
